I, a gentleman of the world as I see it, have never played Dungeons & Dragons. Recently I was asked to take part in such a game, that at first seemed admirable but then escalated to a responsibility of out of control inbox-proportions.
I, myself still a gentleman, take very few things seriously. But as I continued to receive messages about scheduling conflicts, where to play, and excessive character background before a single session transpired, I decided to take a stand—if I were to take one thing to my icy heart, it would be my D&D (Dungeons and Dragons Roleplaying Quest-game Recreation) character. What started out as a light fiction grew into a work that excelled past three in the morning.
I actually sent the following to the group's facebook message inbox. I mean every word of it.
here's my character:
Name—Brigan Madrok, son of Crogteeth the Maleficent
Race—half-man, half-elf, part-box turtle—ALL COP.
Class—fishmonger
Mood—smarmy, counts on weather
Alignment—straight
Born from the womb of an unknown woman-creature, Madrok was cast unto the wilderness once the doctor removed said baby from the womb—he was disgusted, he threw said baby into the hypodermic needle bin, then discarded said hypodermic needles into a bush just yonder his office building complex by the highway, next to Ye Olde Days Inn. As just a babe and his uncut umbilical cord, he was alienated from civilization, facing prejudiced and indifferent looks at every visit of the local peasant IHOP. Madrok walked the pathways and forded many rivers, dragging his umbilical cord along with him. Once ambushed by a posse of bandits and held at knifepoint, to distract such treacherous fiends, Madrok took hold of his bodily cord and blew into it, surprised to hear angelic noises flow outwards like that of the gentlest flute or similar brass instrument. He himself, as stated before, still a babe at four months, astounded the bandits, and they fled off into the deepest part of the woods, never to be seen again; except for Frik Johnson, the lumber mill master’s boy who traveled back to his parent’s cottage to re-evaluate himself—once at home he questioned the path he had chosen, was able to get an apprenticeship at his father’s mill and developed a strong work ethic—while at a lunch break at Ye Olde Applebee’s with his fellow co-workers several weeks following his hiring, his hardened eyes laid upon the server who brought him his mozzarella sticks, never had he met such a beauty before—their relationship staggered at first, but it soon blossomed into something beautiful, they took walks along the brook, danced together at the squire’s under-the-sea themed ball/wine mixer, and experienced each other’s flesh for the first time under the moonlight of an August sky in the backseat of a Volvo—when the test was positive, they were shocked, “Should we keep it?” asked Frik, “Nothing would make me happier to see you as the father of our child,” said Salinthor the waitress, they embraced as Frik said, “Never let me go, never let me go,” a tear rolled down his young face—the wedding was fit for a lumber miller’s son, and that’s just what it really was, and a boy named Frik Jr. followed months afterward, and then a daughter, and then two more sons after that—Frik’s and Salinthor’s wages eventually were able to sustain the family’s upkeep, they purchased a cottage near the brook they took walks along, near a beautiful flower patch full of flowers that expressed every trim of the rainbow—“I want to be a knight, daddy!” Junior once chimed in, putting a worried expression on Frik’s face while reading the paper one Saturday morning, he looked to his spouse and she only smiled, “Lucharen wants to be an alchemist, wanting to be a knight is not much different,” she soothed, and the next morning Junior found a bundled-up package of shiny, armor lying on his bed—“I’m sorry to report this to you Mr. and Mrs. Johnson,” said the solemn squire holding up Junior’s no longer shining armor as he handed it to the parents with their kingdom’s flag draped over it, “His sacrifice was for the good of the king, and all his people,” but this didn’t stop the two parents from weeping—old age came, and with it more diseases that little control existed for, as Salinthor’s legs became weaker and weaker, much like her father’s did before her, and as the wrinkles increased, her ability to walk didn’t—“Take me to the flower patch,” she asked her husband, he did this, he lowered her down to the earth and she sighed, “the children all grew up and left us, now it is only us, but not for long,” Frik grasped her hands longingly and spoke, “If we only live one life, then a life with you is worth all the flowers on every flower patch in all the land,” a tear rolled down her withered cheek, they expressed their love for one another, and she sunk her head slowly into his lap for the last time—Frik lived for only a week more once Salinthor was gone, there was nothing left for him but to join his loved one beyond the stars.
So from that day onward, Madrok swung his umbilical cord to-and-fro, defending himself from all attacks, and playing the cord like Pan played his flute to enchant woodland creatures and randy nymphs. Following this, he received a rash around his umbilical cord from dragging it across the ground, which developed into an infection; which soon appeared to be a nasty bout of the plague. He died soon afterward. He was four and a half months old. THE END.
And thus ends the greatest story every told.
Here is a bonus, thanks to Everything is Terrible, accurately titled Defenestration the Movie:
DEFENESTRATION THE MOVIE from Everything Is Terrible! on Vimeo.
fancier dan, out.
